• LEFT • In Search of Small Gods 2024 Mixed Media 9”x12” I was 19 when I met James Warren. He was best friends with my stepfather, Jamie, and as long as I have known Jamie I have known of James Warren. Stories of his legendary character were sprinkled into conversations with Jamie for years before we ever met. When our paths finally did cross, it was on a steelheading trip I joined with my mom and Jamie. Only a couple years into my fly-fishing journey, I didn’t yet know why but the idea of steelhead and spey casting was alluring to me, as was the invitation. Not many anglers would wish to suffer a rookie on such a trip. While fumbling with the added length and two-handed coordination of the spey rods, I watched in awe as James and Jamie launched beautiful loops across the river. With James was his elderly golden retriever, Doc. His new puppy, a wirehaired pointing Griffon named Shep, stayed home with the dog sitter. James wasn’t confident Doc would make it through the week and didn’t want to abandon this responsibil-ity to a sitter. He’d lumber along the snowy banks behind us and, inevitably, as all retrievers seem to do, find something disgusting to eat or roll in. On our last day of fishing, Doc wandered off into the tall grass and did not return when called. After a pan-icked few minutes from James, certain his beloved dog had wandered off to die, Doc emerged from the brush with a ratty tennis ball in his mouth, tail wag-ging like a puppy again. The evening brought a remarkable feast, my first exposure to the art of wild-game fine dining. Tucked around the small table in the cabin, we shared stories while passing around plates of elk and duck, root vegetables and expertly paired wines. Doc fell asleep by the fireplace to the sounds of laughter and clink-ing glasses. Doc didn’t wake up the next morning. I watched Jamie and James load his body, wrapped in a blanket, into the bed of James’ truck. James picked up the dirty tennis ball and set it next to his companion. Tears welled up in my eyes. James remarked on Doc’s “hell of a life” and how this wasn’t such a bad way to go— surrounded by love and laughter, the warmth of a fire, and the sounds of a frigid river in the background. Doc had, by all measures, chosen a good day to die. As years passed and flyfishing overwhelmed other pursuits, I started working in my family’s fly shop in Livingston, MT. Still young and figuring out who I wanted to be, I knew a couple of things for certain— I wanted to fish and I wanted to tell stories. I jumped at an opportunity to fish with a group of women for muskie on the famed Lac Seul in Ontario. Jamie sug-gested reaching out to James about borrowing gear and to pick his brain on the topic of esox—muskie and pike were some of his favorite species. James was thrilled to oblige, and a few days later came by the shop with half a dozen Cliff Bugger Beast fly boxes jammed with hand-tied muskie flies, a couple of rods and reels, and a college course’s worth of knowledge on the topic. We set up a time for me to go out on the river with him to practice my casting with the heavy rods, lines and flies. We must have been a sight to see anchored at Mallard’s Rest on the Yellowstone—me casting an 11-weight rod with a 10-inch fly over and over again, him in the rower’s seat coaching me over a can of PBR. THE FLYFISH JOURNAL 087
The Flyfish Journal The Flyfish Journal 15.3: Page 87
